


Visiting Hours

by GuileandGall



Series: Violaceous Fury [6]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Declarations Of Love, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Regret, furia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuileandGall/pseuds/GuileandGall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Troy's Saturday visits to see Furia at the hospital. He makes elaborate strides to make sure that he can get 30 minutes with her a month--an appointment he never misses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visiting Hours

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: f!Boss/Troy Troy visits the Boss while she's in her coma. Bonus points if he brings flowers. Special thanks to Chyrstis and SaintsempressJae for their thoughts and eyes. *kisses*  
> Disclaimer: Saint's Row belongs to THQ, Volition, and Deep Silver. I'm only playing with their universe. I do not own the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. I do it for the love of the game, the world, and the characters; and because they stuck with me long after I turned the game off (and back on, and off, ad infinitum).

**Visiting Hours**

**-1-**

* * *

One Saturday every month, Chief of Police Troy Bradshaw managed to shake off everything that pressed down upon him: his own people, the expectation of his position, and even the distasteful part of his job. Even if it only amounted to a few hours where he felt like himself, he never missed this appointment. He made his way to a little apartment he kept off the books and in a false name. There he would strip away everything about him that said he was a cop. Within twenty minutes of arriving there he had showered and shaved. Standing at the bathroom mirror he stared at himself, trying to find it.

He didn't know what it was precisely. But whatever it was, she had seen it. And it had drawn her to him. Furia still made his head spin, and he had not heard her voice in nearly two years, though he saw her once a month. Even in a coma she still had him spellbound. He grabbed the white bottle with the red markings and splashed a bit of the liquid in his hands, rubbed them together before dousing his face and neck in the scent that began with the overpowering aromas of cinnamon and sage.

Troy wrinkled his nose, he never liked how Old Spice started, but it always faded to a pleasant cedar wood and musk scent. He smiled at the memory of how much Furia had enjoyed it. He ducked out of the bathroom and traded the towel around his waist for boxers and a well broken-in pair of faded jeans. Then he sat on the edge of the bed as he pulled on his socks. His memory was still toying with him, taunting him.

Her lyrical trilling voice still lingered fresh in his memory. He could hear the question she had asked him that night. Troy lay sprawled across the bed, sheets draped strategically, and she had been standing not ten feet from where he was sitting at that moment. In the doorway of that bathroom, nude, backlit by the light, toying with something in her hands as she stood on one foot, resting the other foot on the knee of her straight leg.

Closing his eyes for a moment he savored the memory of that sight for the umpteenth time. "Vaya, I wouldn't figure you for an Old Spice kind of guy," she had said in that musical voice of hers that made the blood rush from his head.

Troy had laughed and slipped an arm behind his head watching her, studying the lines of her body. "Never heard you complain before."

"Not complaining," she had replied, turning and setting the bottle back on the counter before she crossed the room. "Just didn't realize that's what it was."

He swallowed at the lump that filled his throat whenever she looked at him with that dark smoldering gaze that hinted at more, that suggested he was more to her than just a convenient lay. Though he knew there was nothing convenient about their relationship for either of them, given his position and her ambition. Whenever he saw those traces which suggested a depth to her feelings, it made him question his own motives.

Furia pressed her hands onto the mattress and moved slowly onto the bed. She prowled toward him, it was the only word he could ever use to describe that movement, all the while dotting kisses up his calf, his thigh. The sultry look made his heart race. Then she stopped and sat back, he could feel the warmth of her on his thigh as she straddled one of his legs.

"So why do you wear it?"

He remembered being puzzled by the question. "I don't know." He tried to chase down a reason and all he could ever come up with was that it had been the first bottle of cologne he had ever gotten-a Christmas gift when he was thirteen, from his grandfather who also wore it.

The answer had made her smile. "Maybe that's why I like it. My yayo always used that. My grandfather," she offered in explanation.

"Are you trying to tell me I remind me of your grandfather?" Troy joked, leaning up on his elbows and raising his eyebrow at her.

"No, cielito," she replied quickly, swatting him playfully before she shifted and she curled up next to him. Her fingers played in the chain around his neck. "It's just one of those things. The smell makes me feel all comfortable and safe. And on you, it's just an added bonus to all the other things." Her finger curled around the chain and she tugged lightly encouraging him to lean into her.

As his lips met hers, Troy's eyes snapped open. "Get a grip, man," he told himself as he stared at the running shoes he was part of the way through tying.

Every month it was the same. The Saturday he would visit her, he would have to start getting ready hours before the shift change, because invariably, his head would play games with him the entire time. Sometimes the memories were triggered by scent, a sound, a stain on his shirt. Anything could spiral him into the nostalgia, into the overwhelming pool of vivid memories.

It would have probably been better if she didn't survive, he told himself once again. There wouldn't be the questions about why you won't just pull the plug. There wouldn't be the need for the lies about bringing Hughes' murderer to justice. Troy knew she did not have anything to do with it. She was too good to have screwed up and blown herself up with him. Julius had set her up, to secure his deal, because Little and Bradshaw both knew that trying to convince Furia and Johnny to drop their flags was a nearly futile endeavor. Regardless of her role in the explosion, Troy learned a long time ago that the truth didn't always matter.

He scraped his hands through his damp hair. Maybe if Julius was more capable, you wouldn't be languishing in this limbo of memories of a woman who'd shoot you as well as look at you once she wakes up, once she finds out. Maybe then you could move the fuck on. Maybe then you might not have to think about how much she'll hate you when she finds out. You'll know.

The argument also happened every time. Furia had a very colorful opinion of cops after the crap Chief Monroe pulled on the Saints over Julius. Troy had only had the chance to talk to her for a few minutes during all that insanity, but he vividly remembered her words. "¡Pinche Policia! Kidnap Julius and turn me into some … some … puta maldita. Para nada. I never had too much against the damned cops before, but Monroe … If that's what their like? Fuck 'em. ¡Que se jodan todos!"

Troy had not needed a translation to understand the sentiment, her distaste dripped like venom in her tone. At the time a part of him wondered what she would say the next time he saw her. How would she react when she found out? He always thought of it in those terms-when she would find out, never if. At the same time he somehow never imagined telling her, though he had planned it out more than once and each time something had happened that interfered. Even still he always assumed it would just come to light. Despite plans to the contrary and cowardly as it maybe, he never thought himself strong enough to break the façade, to tell her he was not who she thought. He was not strong enough to break her heart, or maybe he was just not strong enough to break his own.

A long sigh escaped him as he stood and pulled out an undershirt which he tugged on quickly as he ducked into the closet to find a shirt.

 

**-2-**

* * *

 

Troy still wasn't sure why he did this, why he made the effort. If she had any idea he was a cop, that he had been a cop back then, Furia would probably be more pissed than Johnny. The only difference is that her shot would not miss out of sympathy for a friend. But even two years in, he still made the trip every month, still paid off the shift sergeant for the district so that he would have half an hour alone, just to see her without anyone else being the wiser.

The chief knew he needed to stop. It was like any addiction. He just had to admit that he had a problem, but it was not a problem yet in his mind. Things would not become problematic until she woke up, until she found out who he really was, until she found out he was not everything she thought. Troy avoided his reflection as he grabbed his phone, his keys, and the lighter he did not use anymore-the one she had given him. He swallowed hard as he held it between his thumb and forefinger, the engraving on the lighter matching the little black and purple design on the back of his hand between those two fingers.

A little curve turned his lips at the memory of it. They had been seeing each other on the sly for just shy of a year and no one seemed to have any idea. He was totally lost in her, and Furia had told him she loved him. It was exactly what he wanted to hear, even though everything in him knew that he should not be allowing himself to indulge in that type of relationship, that type of distraction. He wanted to believe that he was the man she saw, the man she loved. Even years later, he still had days when he wanted to be a man that deserved the trust she had placed in him, instead of the Chief of Police.

He still remembered how he wound up with the permanent reminder of his deception-the strong black capital T with a lithe purple S curving around it. They had fallen asleep on the sofa watching a movie, and it was the slight tickling sensation on his hand that finally tugged him out of whatever stupid dream might have held his subconscious. Furia had propped his hand on her chest as she sketched the little design alternating between black and purple Sharpie markers. He had not moved, he just watched. When she manipulated his hand with her left, he noticed she had tried it first on her own hand.

"What are you doing?" he whispered in her hair.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Nothing." She giggled when he tucked his nose behind her ear and kissed her lightly. "Stop or I'm going to mess it up."

"What is it?"

"Ni jota," she said with a shrug.

The body language told him what it probably meant, though he was not really sure at the time. It was yet another moment where he asked himself why the hell he had taken German in high school, though he was fairly certain that 90% of the Spanish she used he would have never learned in class.

"T-S, huh? Third Street?"

She shrugged. "Or maybe something else," she noted, closing the markers and glancing back at him again.

"Okay, I'll bite. If it is something else why is there an S and not an F?"

She cocked one eyebrow at him. "You know what Furia means right?"

"I have a pretty good guess."

"And you really think someone would name their kid Fury?"

Troy shrugged. "Could be? Maybe it's a family name?"

"¡Por Dios! No," she replied with a little chuckle. She rolled over, resting her hands against his bare chest. For a few moments, she watched her fingers trace the outline of the little dip at the base of his throat silently before she turned those intriguing eyes back on his face. "Soledad. My given name is Soledad Amaranta Guerrero."

Troy just grinned, the cops did not even have that information. Her file merely held the name everyone knew-everyone, even her siblings called her Furia. The realization that she deemed him important enough to have that information knocked the breath out of him. "Soledad," he finally repeated, tucking her long black hair behind her ear tenderly. "Beautiful name. What's it mean?"

She grimaced. "Solitude."

He just nodded then whispered her name against her lips.

The kiss broke sooner than he would have liked. She looked down at him with feigned warning. "Do not ever-"

He stopped her threat with another, deeper kiss. "I promise," he laughed when he looked up at her wry face.

"Lo sé. Just wanted to make sure," Furia noted, relaxing tremendously and cuddling against him.

Troy looked at the little design on his hand. His mind was racing. The implications were mounting quickly. He cared about her tremendously, loved her even. If she trusted him to know this one thing that no one else knew-it suddenly became harder to breathe. He loved her, trusted her with his life, but not with his identity. A part of him wanted to tell her right then, just hold onto her tightly and whisper the truth in her ear, but the fear of losing her wracked him, entirely.

Joining the Saints was not supposed to go like this, he had thought as he looked into her hazel eyes. He was not supposed to get close to these people. His superiors expected him to get information, not make friends and fall in love with a woman who was equally as dangerous as any of the gang's lieutenants. Furia's rise in the Saints was a mix of good timing and incredible skill. She was smart and cunning, and had aligned herself well and proved herself both capable and useful from the get go.

From the police chief's point of view, she was one of the people he should be running a file on. Troy's heart was racing and not just because of the way she looked at him, or what she had told him, or the fact that he wanted her-his nerves were raw because of his own fear of the truth. The saying goes that the truth shall set you free, and that was just what he was afraid of. Running his thumb along her jaw he guided her lips to his. The kiss was gentle and teasing, and prompted her to respond just how he was hoping; she wriggled closer to him, draping her arms around his neck as the exchange deepened.

When the electronic chiming started, she sighed dramatically and laid her forehead on his chest for a few moments. Leaning past him she grabbed her phone, since she did not drop it back onto the end table and return to him Troy knew it was one of three people-Julius, Johnny, or Dex.

"¿Qué onda, Chino?" Furia greeted casually as she leaned forward rubbing her hands across her forehead. It was one of her clear signs of irritation.

Troy ran a hand up her back as he kissed her bare shoulder before he slid the thin spaghetti strap of her top back onto her shoulder. When he started to climb off the couch, she shook her head at him. He wanted to stay, but instead he shrugged and mouthed, I have to go, as he tapped his watch.

Her warm eyes narrowed at him as she leaned back against the sofa and scowled at him. "Sorry," he whispered in her ear as he leaned over her. "I'll make it up to you."

"Better," she pouted in a low voice, covering the phone with her hand.

He could not help but grin in reply. When he kissed her she moved the phone away, and he could hear Johnny's voice clearly, rambling about something or other that Troy probably did not want to know about. He had no issues with Gat calling her, outside of the fact that when the two of them got together bad shit happened. Though the two of them usually came through the trouble they caused without a scratch, it was just the way they played off each other.

When Troy slipped out the door, she winked at him. "Tonight," he promised and Furia nodded with a smile.

Once out of the building, he had gone to light a cigarette and cupping his hand against the wind to keep the flame from going out he studied the little symbol Furia had drawn on his hand. Suddenly he had a little epiphany, an insane epiphany. For her that symbol had nothing to do with the Saints, though it had the benefits of being able to be attributed to the gang. The design on his hand was all about them, him and her. She always told him he was her rock, and Troy had admitted to her that she had snaked her way into his thoughts, and in to his heart, though he never admitted the latter to her-he barely admitted it to himself. She was the curvy purple S wrapped around him, the solid block-lettered T.

The reaction he had was stupid. He did not know why he did it at the time, and thinking back years later he really could not think of a reason not to have done precisely what he did. He meant something to her, and he knew how she would respond to the gesture when the idea struck him. His old buddy Marco was a talented tattoo artist and owed Troy a favor. Within an hour the undercover cop was sitting at the sturdy kitchen table of his high school football buddy, as his mind wrapped around the constant buzz and sting of the needle.

"Who did the artwork?" Marco asked at one point.

Troy looked at him for a long moment. "A friend."

"Hot friend or talented friend?" It only took the hint of a smirk for his old buddy to laugh. "Yeah, totally a hot friend. What's her name?"

"So-," Troy started, then corrected, calling her by only name people knew. "Furia."

"Ay? Decided to finally branch out from vanilla, carbrón?"

"Go to hell, Marco," Troy replied sharply.

"It was the hips, wasn't it? Does she dance?"

The cop shook his head. "Yeah, she dances. Tried to teach me."

"Oh, I'd have paid to see that," Marco laughed heartily.

Troy understood why. Furia had great rhythm and when she danced he wanted nothing more than to dance with her. But Bradshaw always felt like an idiot on the dance floor. Usually whenever music became involved in any Saints gathering, he and Johnny stuck their asses to a wall, bullshitting over beers.

"You almost done?"

"Patience. Something like this deserves attention to detail. If I do it right, she might just ride you like she's being chased," Marco advised with a wide grin. "And we will then be even, carnal."

"Yeah. Yeah."

Bradshaw shook his head once, pulling himself out of the memory as he dropped the lighter into the pocket of his jeans. He trotted down the stairs of his old apartment. On the table by the door sat the bouquet he always tried to bring, though during the colder months it was harder and harder to find Gerbera Daisies. But in summer he was always able to get bouquets of bright vibrant colors, like huge bursts of colored petals. Those were the ones she really liked-big, vibrant, beautiful, he thought. Just like her-like she had been.

Pinching at one of the petals he ran his fingers over it. The membranous flesh was smooth and soft. Resignedly he checked his watch and grabbed the flowers.

 

**-3-**

* * *

 

Peeking through the panel in the door he watched the guard in the hall stretch then fidget to answer the ringing phone. The man tried to argue that his relief was not there yet, but Troy knew the sergeant was being adamant about him getting out of the hall so that the Chief could enter the room unnoticed. He leaned back against the wall as the officer moved toward the elevators.

What are you doing? He asked himself for at least the 48th time since he had started these little excursions. The realization made him laugh. He knew as much as he argued with himself he would keep coming to see her until she sat up and told him to fuck off. And there was a part of him that would be fine with that-that part of him just wanted to know she was all right. Just as that part would be sated, he was equally aware that there was a part of him that would be devastated when that day came. When the little fantasy, spurred on by memory, would be broken and his heart shattered along with it.

A deep breath stilled his nerves and he grabbed the handle, arguing with himself for a moment before yanking the door open. The movement from the stairwell to her room was quick and as silent as he could manage. He set the flowers down quickly and turned to the door slowly closing behind him, manipulating the rest of its path to keep from drawing anyone's attention.

It played out like it always did. He pressed his back against the door, lingering for a moment, even convincingly lying to himself that it was to make sure no one heard his dash into the room. Then once his resolve had resolidified, he carried the flowers across the room and set them on the table near the windowsill-some place she might see them when she woke up.

Troy always thought of it in those terms-when, never if-though he had heard all the theories. The reports from the doctors that crossed his desk along with this or that alderman's request to remove her from life support.

It always took too long to finally approach the bed, even longer to bring himself to touch her. But he always found himself lowering the rail on one side to sit beside her-to be close to her-holding her hand gently, always aware of the restraints on her wrists.

The first time Bradshaw visited her, it had been traumatic for him. She was burned, bruised, and bandaged up. There had seemed to be so many machines then. Adding the restraints to everything else had just floored him. That sight had triggered his rage, and it was all he could do not to grab some doctor and beat him to a pulp. Instead he slinked out of her room and started researching, which relieved some of his ire though little of his worry.

A matter of months later when his promotion came through, Troy was able to get detailed information on the care she was receiving at the County Hospital's Prison Ward. With every visit, a part of him was thankful she was some place less secure medical ward than the one at the Stilwater Penitentiary, which was more secure to be sure, but was not equipped to handle patients in her condition. Something about the need for near constant medical attention had been the reason the warden's report gave.

If she were there, his visits would not go unnoticed, nor would they go unreported. He had no valid reason to visit this prisoner, at least professionally. Only his partner, who Johnny had managed to kill on his way to get to Troy, had known about the cop's connection to Furia; he had been Troy's handler. And Johnny knew, but he had figured it out before the explosion, or Furia had told him. Troy was never sure precisely how Gat found out.

"Johnny's doing okay. Got a report just this week, he's being as model a prisoner as Johnny Gat can be. Most of his fights wind up being some new fish talking trash about the Saints, or you." Troy stroked the back of her hand with his, watching the slow deliberate movement. "His trial is almost finished," he said with a note of regret as he shook his head. "The judge will likely hand down the prosecutor's recommendation. I couldn't talk them into going for life. The DA wants to make a point."

"Your cousin Miguel got picked up again last week. One of the boys from Property Crimes went to ask him about a suspected new ring." Troy shook his head and admitted," The officer said several things he shouldn't. And Miguel caught him offguard, beat him with a tire iron. Broke his arm and cut up his face. The idiot got lucky," he said with a laugh.

"Jen got him out on bail, but he might end up back inside for this one, even though the officer went too far. IA busted him back down to the beat, so he's on a desk until he heals. Lee's going to put one of his good guys on Miguel's case see if he can't get a lighter sentence or get it all laughed out of court since the cop admitted to instigating it."

Troy sighed heavily and looked at her face, even though it pained him. The tape disturbed him, but he was certain not seeing the light and vibrancy that he remembered being in her eyes might be worse.

"God I miss you," he breathed, his chest feeling heavy as he touched her cheek. He closed his eyes, holding his breath when her head moved slightly. It happened on occasion and it always stung him. It is just a spontaneous reflex, he reminded himself, though every part of him screamed for it to be more.

"Furia, please, I'm not only asking for me. Memo's struggling. Socorro has been getting in trouble in school, thankfully it is only some acting out and that one fight a few months back. But they need you. You were the one that held it all together for them."

Closing his eyes he leaned his forehead against hers. "You were the one that held it all together for me, too. I know I have no right to ask you to come back. And I know that even if you do, you'll probably hate me. I should have told you that morning when you confided in me and at least a dozen other times after that. But I wasn't strong enough. I was a coward. But I just need to know you're all right, that you'll be fine."

Cupping her face in his hands, Troy leaned over her, eyes closed imagining her the way she was: smoldering hazel eyes blinking brightly at him, that coy smirk she always gave him making his blood simmer. "Soledad," he whispered against her cool, dry lips. "I love you." It had taken three years of knowing for that admission to finally find voice. Troy pressed his mouth lightly to hers, and his heart ached. He wanted to believe she kissed him back, but when he opened his eyes and looked down at the pale sleeping beauty lying there, he knew she had not, could not.

The audible swallow seemed to echo along with the beeping and whirring of the machines around her. Troy pursed his lips tightly against the flood of emotion these visits always stirred up. When he finally cleared his throat and stood, he leaned back over her and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead.

"I'll see you soon," he promised, his voice cracking just a bit, before raising the rail and going to the door. His eyes remained on her for a long moment. Though he hated seeing her like this, so unlike the lively woman he fell in love with, he knew he needed to be here-for her and for himself. A quick peek out the door and he was back in the hall, then in the stairwell moments before an officer in a black uniform took up his post outside Furia's door again.

Troy, as he always did, made his way to another floor, any floor, then sat on the stairs holding his face in his hands. He did not know why he finally told her. Something just told him it was time she knew. The only thing he regretted about it, was that he could not be sure she heard it.


End file.
